


Spelunking

by travellinghopefully



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Feels, Fluff, Repressed, unspoken feelings, whouffaldi, whouffaldi ficchal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 04:46:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6315514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travellinghopefully/pseuds/travellinghopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, belated response to Dreameater1988 prompt....in my defence, I only just saw it as the deadline was upon me...and that's my story and I'm sticking to it</p>
<p>The Doctor has taken up a new hobby that confuses Clara a great deal</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spelunking

"What on earth were you thinking?"

She was doing the thing with her eyes. He was mostly certain that this was anger. Really, she had no call to be angry. Was it his fault she accompanied him? Well yes, probably....Was it his fault that she was mostly composed of large round things? Admittedly, on reflection, and after she had slapped him, he shouldn’t have expressed that out loud, or subsequently refer to it, ever again. He definitely wasn’t responsible, no matter his duty of care, (which he took very seriously) when the wet suit she was wearing had snagged on a rock and ripped.

And, honestly, how was he supposed to realise that it was utterly inappropriate (her words) to comment (again) on the roundness of her posterior? Or give quite suck a detailed, and apparently loud analysis of the impracticality of her underwear, the cut, the colour, the fabric, the unlikely comfort...The image of lace against her skin, the already dark mottling of an incipient, possibly truly epic bruise, seemed astonishingly clear in his mind, and rather compelling. Perhaps there was some important detail that had escaped his notice? That must be it, something he should have noted and acted upon, perhaps an alien parasite, or mold? He hadn’t actually examined her injury, perhaps he should do that. He suggested it, Clara huffed. If possible her eyes also inflated even more. Maybe he should focus on diverting the conversation from wandering down avenues where the end result didn’t involve him experiencing personal harm?

"Crawling in a damp, dark cave. Again, why?"

"Spelunking! Doesn’t the word just roll off your tongue?"

Clara was smirking, why as she smirking, smirking was a thing, or was her face malfunctioning, it was so hard to tell? He had catalogued at the last count 3212 facial expressions and their possible meanings, none of which was/were/would currently help him. 

"Amazing things cave, some truly wondrous ones, intricate calcite formations, spectacular stalactites, singing crystals, unique life forms, ultra violet frogs, flying mice, extremeophiles ...."

(was that what Clara was, obviously not a bacteria thriving in toxic conditions, but she did seem at times a teensy bit of a thrill seeker, reckless, heedless of how ephemeral she was?)

"....mazelike passages, tight crawl spaces, vast chambers, deep crevices, cascading waterfalls, extraordinary natural sculptures."

He had held Clara’s gaze throughout, and he found some of the words, some of the images that coruscated through his mind, made his skin buzz. Obviously an after effect of something in the caves.

"Those were bats!"

"What were?"

"The flying mice!"

Clara had interrupted his flow, what had he been saying?

"No, no, really, mice, with wings."

Still bats!

"Clara, really, stop interrupting. Mice with feathered wings, not bats. I know what bats are, lovely creatures. And don’t start with any of them getting caught in your hair nonsense, they are perfectly capable of navigating, exceptionally."

"Did we see any of those things?"

Her hands were firmly on her hips, her expression at its most fierce. He considered telling her she looked quite absurd, he reflected that, that may have been one of the things written on a card somewhere, something he’d been expressly told he was forbidden from saying, regardless of mitigating circumstances, of which there were none. But really, rules were only suggestions. Except his, those were fixed. 

• Don’t go wandering off  
• Let me do the talking. All you have to do is stand in the background, and admire my diplomatic skills  
• Do exactly what I say  
• Stick close to me  
• Don’t eat anything until you’re sure its totally safe  
• Time is not the boss of you  
• The Doctor lies  
• Never run when you are scared  
• Never ignore a coincidence. Unless you’re busy, then always ignore a coincidence.  
• Never knowingly be serious  
• Use your enemies’ power against them

He couldn’t be certain that any of those were relevant , or what he’d been thinking about before attempting to recall them. Anyway, rules, just suggestions, Clara did seem quite fond of absolutes, and nothing in her demeanour suggested this was an appropriate occasion to have a discussion on semantics. 

Oh yes, Clara.

Absurd, ah, no....not that word. There was another word, poking its way to the fore of his brain, the word was quite ridiculous of course, but he was almost sure that there wasn’t an interdict on this one. 

Adorable.

Small, roundish, good personality (which was what mattered), spectacularly feisty.... Still glaring at him. She had probably said something he was meant to reply to and he had missed it entirely.

Adorable.

He replayed the last few seconds, no, no, he hadn’t said that out loud, that was fine then. He lifted his hand to her face and tucked some of the damp straggles of hair behind her ear. That wasn’t something he did....he pulled a couple of leaves and assorted twigs from amongst the strands, there, that was fine, that was something he would do.

"You could wash you know. Its a thing apparently?...."

That earned him another slap, probably deserved. It distracted her, couldn’t have her start to think about him touching her of his own free will and completely without coercion. Her skin was warm and soft and he couldn’t be certain whether she had shivered or his hand had trembled? For scientific veracity he should repeat the action, several times and observe the reaction. He wasn’t quite certain about what comparison tests might also be appropriate or what could act as a control? He could trace the outline of her ear, the skin behind it, lift her jaw with his fingertips and tilt her face towards his....and then what? Exactly where were his thoughts and quite what was he thinking? He wanted to press his face against her neck, inhale the fragrance that was uniquely her, even, somewhere under the smells of the cave, always the scent, lingering when she wasn’t with him, imprinted on the TARDIS, deep in the leather of the chairs in the library. He could sit anywhere, when she left, he took her chair, surrounded by the memory of her warmth, the essence of her. She asked him when he slept, his glib answer, when she wasn’t looking, entirely true. He leant his head against the back of the chair, allowing his eyes to fall shut, safe in her imagined embrace and stole moments of sleep. He didn’t recount what his dreams were to his conscious mind.

Unsure of exactly how long he had stared at her without blinking, he concentrated on trying to tell whether his mouth was open or closed, and had she said anything that required him to do something other than nod in apparent agreement or acquiescence? 

"Silly owl!" 

(Probably quite a while then and he looked nothing like an owl.)

She lifted her fingers to his face, under his jaw, closing his mouth with a snap (that answered that the...) again the shiver. He wanted to grasp her fingers, then study them for the mystery that was in her touch.

"Did we see any of those things?"

"What things?" 

(What were we talking about?)

"Mouse bats!"

(Really, honestly, he hadn’t mentioned those, did she not pay attention, he had said flying mice, she had said bats....) 

"Singing crystals, anything?"

What exactly did he see? Best for him not to mention anything about her arse again. She had taken the lead, insisting on following behind their guide, saying he, the Doctor was bound to get stuck, he was all corners, angles, unfeasibly tall, not at all designed for confined spaces, always awkward, she wasn’t going to get stuck behind him (he was fairly sure he had managed not to look hurt). So, he was behind her, watching her scramble and wiggle and, that really was surprisingly distracting, the wiggling. He found he had no trouble whatsoever following the route their leader had selected, for Clara it was a different matter, she was ridiculously short and round (he hadn’t said it that time), she seemed to require lowering or boosting every few minutes to get over another obstacle in their path. He absolutely did not display any irritation when he lowered her into the other man’s arms, when he watched her hands settle on his shoulders, when he watched their bodies brush against each other. Ridiculously flimsy things wet suits, and wet, and cold and uncomfortable. Really there had to be a better outfit than this. He wanted a warm, dry, suit, something that cushioned his joints from the infinite array of sharp rocks (not that he was remotely an angular, bony, stick insect). 

Did the man know what he was doing? Did he know where he was taking them? What were his qualifications for this? He may have said those things out loud, earning him a hissed remonstrations from Clara. The man had laughed, the audacity, laughed! He didn’t think about how Clara had felt beneath his hands, how slight she was, how warm she was, the bird like flutter of her pulse, how fragile she seemed, how often he touched her, not fully conscious of where he placed his hands but the heat of her searing into him, branding him, rendering him oblivious to anything else.

Spelunking, really the word had captivated him, but he found it utterly pointless. Still, he had a duty of care. Clara needed a hobby, something that had nothing to do with him, so he’d suggested the outing, hoping she would be entranced, or at least interested, engaged, wanting to continue to do the thing without him. The only thing holding her attention appeared to be their guide. He was a pudding brain, obviously, his stories bland and utterly uninspiring. But Clara encouraged him. He had told her about the formation of caves and she had told him to shut up, the man was telling her the same things with glaring factual inaccuracies and Clara was listening apparently enraptured, positively hanging on his every word. He had said something to her about relationships. Humans seemed to need them, or tattoos, or wars, or something, so why was he irked? Why did he have to suppress a growl every time she smiled at the man, every time they touched?

Probably spores in the cave, he was infected, not that, that was a thing superior Time Lord physiology etc...

And then, they were stuck. Clara’s pert behind (now really, where had that image and those words sprung from?) snagged on a particularly sharp rocky prominence. There had been considerable wiggling (that word again, it fitted quite well with adorable, but probably with some other words as well) and a sharp rip and tear, or was it the other way round? He had surely only replayed the moment to ascertain that, not to recapture the moment when his nose was almost pressed against her skin, not when his fingers tangled in the lace as he shoved her forwards. No...

He’d left the man there, summoning the Tardis into the cavern they’d found themselves in, materialising the shell of safety around them. A hobby wasn’t something that would needlessly expose her to risk and harm, she seemed entirely too capable of running head long into those things herself.

So here they were, in the console room, wet, cold, filthy, arguing about bats.

"You need to get changed, shower, get warm, I should take a look at that."

He gestured. Clara raised an eyebrow.

"Its just a graze."

"I should make sure."

"Help me with this then...?" 

Her arm flailed in the general direction of the zip. He lowered it. Not allowing his fingers to trace down her spine, not drinking in the expanse of her that was exposed to his gaze. He may have hesitated he, she may have noticed.

"Come on then!"

"What?"

 

"I’m never getting this thing off unless you give me a hand."

He pulled at the sleeves, both at once, until she had glared at him.

Maybe one arm at a time and try to leave them in their sockets. You’re, we’re trying to remove the wet suit, not my arms.

He may have rolled his eyes, but he continued with more care. He considered bracing a foot against her thigh to give him a little more leverage.

"Are these things meant to come off?"

"I am not wearing this suit for the REST OF MY LIFE!"

She was shouting at him, it was never good when she was shouting at him. Rather than pulling at the end of the sleeve, he moved his hands to the gap at the shoulder and attempted to peel the clingy material down and away from her.

"Right, other arm!"

"Are you sure we couldn’t just take a break for tea and biscuits, its been an inordinately long time since breakfast?"

"No!"

That seemed fairly conclusive. He really was starting to feel a little cold and uncomfortable himself, not that he would ever mention it. Still the faster he set her free, the sooner, something or other.

Having perfected his technique with the first arm of the wetsuit, the second arm presented considerably less difficulty and there was more leeway with one arm already out and the suit unzipped. He could barely fathom how she had managed to dress herself unaided. She had been unaided? How had she done the zip up by herself....there was a string on his, he saw no sign of one on hers....He was sure there was an entirely reasonable explanation. Jealous was a word he ignored and stamped on when the Tardis presented him with it.

He was staring, he knew he was staring. There was more lace, and skin beneath the lace, and he was staring, and thinking, and his skin was buzzing again, the fizz of his blood pushing, urging...and Clara was looking at him too, and then her hands flew up to cover herself and she stormed out of the room.

He stood there, he stood there some time. 

The cold brought him back to himself. That, and a nudge from the Tardis. He needed a shower, he needed tea, he needed biscuits, he needed a few quiet moments in the library or perhaps something to take apart and put back together again. Perhaps with considerable and unnecessary force.

He strode off with purpose, until he realised he was still encased in his wet suit, his attempts to reach his zip were similarly ineffectual. He contemplated following Clara, asking her to help him. She would be in the shower by now...Imagining her hands on his skin, skimming over his back, against his shoulders, his chest, his arms...

He found a knife, he cut himself free.

Hobbies be damned.

**Author's Note:**

> for fun, look up "Spelunking" in the urban dictionary and find out why Clara smirks....
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